


Speak in new tongues

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Bible Quotes, Catholic Imagery, Character Study, Demonic Possession, Gen, Prayer, Pre-Canon, Recovery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Discovery, Treat, spirituality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21658456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: She is ready. She knows it by heart, this ritual, this repetition, this prayer, like a secret. She knows they are waiting. And yes, she is ready. She is coming, with her open hands and her open heart. She is coming, with her power and her rage. She is coming, with her violence and her love.Come morning, shining bright, she is coming.Mouse hears the word again.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2019





	Speak in new tongues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mazily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/gifts).



> This story was inspired by [Psalm 102](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+102&version=NIV) and [Rosary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-n7wSt1MVMM), by Scott Walker, and borrows its title from [Mark 16:17](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+16&version=NIV).
> 
> Hi mazily! Thank you for [an amazing prompt](https://mazily.dreamwidth.org/54252.html) that wouldn't let go of me. I hope you have a lovely holiday season!

There are holes in the pattern of the world. She binds the thread. She scrapes that pattern. She kisses the holes, for the arrows and the blades. For the nails and the ashes. For the tears and the thorns. Just in case.

Just in case.

She burns like glowing embers. She is covered in ashes. After the fire, she vanishes like smoke. After the fire, comes the gentle whisper. And she knows He is here. He has heard her. He must have. She knows He is here for her.

She knows. At some point, she must have done it. She must have thrown the rosary across the room. Maybe trying to reach Him, way up there.

Maybe trying to—

No. Maybe she doesn't know.

But now, she feels the beads on her face, heavy, like drops of water, like prayers without words. She feels the arrows and the blades. In her soul, she feels the voice of God again.

She can change. She can be saved. Come morning, she can be again. Come morning, she can come back. And she does, she does, her mind shouting out names from the Apocrypha. All of them, who have been here before her. All of them, broken and lost and found, and speaking in new tongues. She reaches out. She tastes the prayers, sharp like splinters on her tongue. She tastes life again, like a thunderstorm.

She is here. Her face is covered. Her eyes are closed. But she is here. She is still here. She is saved. She is forgiven. She is lost. But she is found. And if He won't hide his face, why should she? No. No, she won't eat the ashes.

She won't hide.

So she takes a deep breath. In the stillness and the silence, _being_ again is strange. It's violent, like an avalanche. It shatters the earth. But it's not unwelcome. It's not wrong.

She opens her eyes. She can hear. She can see. She can speak, and the first thing she asks for is her rosary. The second one is a glass of water. The third one is a pencil. For all the prayers, for all these words inside her.

Afterwards, they stand by her bedside. Between the prayers and the laying on of hands, they ask her about it. But she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know how to explain. They ask her about what it feels like, and their words are kind and patient and careful, but she really doesn't know what to say. It's not like being taken over. It's like still being there, in a dark and cold and bitter place. It's like still being there, while you're not there at all.

She's still afraid of being left behind. Of not being there anymore. And she doesn't want to talk about it. She justs wants to run.

But she can't, not yet. So she stays, and she gathers her strength. She lies awake, like a bird alone on a roof. She places her bare feet on the cold tiles, just so she can feel something. She opens the windows to let the wind in, just so she can really feel something again. Just so she can reassure herself.

Yes, she is still here.

Her Bible opens at random, and she leaps at the words. And maybe they all run together, maybe they all fade, but any words will do. _Lord, break me. Lord, heal me. Lord, make me whole. Love, save me._ She prays, in silence. And the silence has a rhythm, and the stillness becomes the motion.

And any prayer will do.

She doesn't sleep much. She wakes up with strange words in her head. She sits in the garden and she writes them down. She tells God everything. She tells Marcus everything she couldn't before. She is angry. She pushes out all the words from the inside. The pencil snaps in two. She is not angry. She knows that he left, but he left because he was afraid, and being afraid is not wrong. It means you're alive. It means you're vulnerable. It means you're real. Yes, he left. But she won't give in to the burn of betrayal, the one from her darkest night. She knows what it means.

So she writes to Marcus. She writes to God. She will try to understand. And they will pray together again, she knows it. The rhythm of their voices and their souls, together again, in perfect harmony. With a little patience. With a little time.

She is broken, battered, burnt but remade. She has changed, but she is the same. She has seen the fear and the pain and the suffering. She has been in sad, lonely places, in the darkest pit of the night. Just like Thomas before the wounds and the nails, she has doubts. But she faces them. In the garden, she faces her fears. She reaches out with her hands, and she touches the wounds, and she crushes her doubts. And she bleeds. She has been hurt, she has been beaten, but she rises. She comes back from the fog and the shadows and the mud. She comes back, and she has strength. She has faith.

She is free. She is here. She believes.

She hears the word again. The prayers soar on the wings of the wind. The prayers never stop bristling. _Lord, break me, heal me, make me whole again. Save me. Let me go. And find me, so I can find myself._ The prayers never stop. The world calls her, and she answers. She answers, with her hands and her eyes and her bare, trembling veins. She answers, with a wire of snare, with her heart, beating alive like a volcano.

And she has to go.

Yes, she has to go. But she won't fade away. She is not afraid. Death and life, angels and demons, present and future, height and depth. No power, nor anything else in all creation. Nothing can stop her. Nothing can keep her away from this calling, this work, this love. (1)

It's autumn when she leaves the convent. It's autumn when she gets up and walks out. She leaves everything behind, but she takes the broken pieces of herself, to mend on the road. She takes her tools and her papers and her Bible, and she walks. She is ready. She knows it by heart, this ritual, this repetition, this prayer, like a secret. She knows they are waiting. And yes, she is ready. She is coming, with her open hands and her open heart. She is coming, with her power and her rage. She is coming, with her violence and her love.

Come morning, shining bright, she is coming.

She is here. The blood in her mouth turns into prayer. Her love is strong and she believes. Yes, she believes. One day, she will light a candle, and it might burn. It burn, it will burn for her. And the rosary, she will put it in lines across the room, across the world. She will learn, and she will give herself. And they will ask _who are you?_ But she won't answer. Her name will never be a curse. Maybe she will string it along. She will bring the world, and the world will know her name.

And she will hear the world.

And the world will tremble.

And she will never stop.

Out there, someone needs her, and she will bring them these things. She will be rage, the instrument. Faith, the compass. Love, the weapon. She will be the wind, she will follow its path. She will be the earthquake, and she will be the fire. She will be the knock on the door, and she will be the answer. She will be the whisper. And she will be the word.

Her heart is broken, but it's hers to give. And He will dwell in these ruins. And He will give her these gifts. She will bring her heart, safely hidden in her hand. And she will bring the rosary. She is aiming for Him, up there. She will bring the fire. And yes, she will bring the word.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) A very rough (but hopefully heartfelt) paraphrase of [Romans 8:38-39](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=romans+8&version=NIV).


End file.
